Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “I think he’s your son, and I also wonder if he might know you’re his father.”

  Bob shrugged again. “Okay, I’ll bite. How would he know I’m his father?”

  “His mother, in all likelihood.”

  “Does she still live in White Salmon?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t even know her name until you told me just now.”

  “How are you so sure I’m the guy’s father?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to know that with absolute certainty, and that’s with a DNA sample. Or we might be able to track down Ms. Davidson and ask the question.” I glanced again at the photograph on his desk. “I had a conversation with Robbie a few days ago.”

  Bob turned toward the photo. “What trouble’s he up to now?”

  “Nothing, unless you think sleeping on a picnic table in a public park is trouble. He wasn’t happy with me when I woke him up, but if I got riled every time a high school kid cussed me out, I’d have to take up a new line of work.”

  He rocked slightly in his chair.

  I went on. “Bob, you haven’t noticed Robbie’s resemblance to Dave Shannon—or whatever his name might be?”

  “No, I haven’t. But why all the interest in the guy?”

  Here was the tricky part. “A matter has come up, and he may be involved.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about him or what he might or might not be involved in.”

  I gave him a pensive nod and placed a business card on the table. “If you think of anything we should know, contact me.” I stood. “No need to see us out.”

  Hollis picked up the brochure Bob had used to scribble out his calculations. “May I take this? I’m thinking about getting a minivan.”

  Bob shot him a smile. “Sure. Give me a call anytime. We’ll take a test drive.”

  “Are you and Lil really looking to buy a minivan?” I asked Hollis as we clambered back into my Tahoe.

  “Nah, but you said it yourself, there’s only one way to know with absolute certainty that Shannon is or isn’t Mr. Cole’s offspring.”

  “Ah, a DNA sample. Should’ve guessed that’s why you used a tissue to retrieve the brochure.”

  “All I need now is for you to get it ready to send along with the other items High Desert Express is transporting to the lab in Bend.”

  “No sooner said than done.” I put on a pair of gloves, fetched an evidence bag from my pack, took the brochure from Holly’s tissue-wrapped hand, and slipped it inside the bag. I started the Tahoe up and pulled back onto the street. “Call Sherry Linn and let her know we’re on the way back to the office with more goodies.”

  I drifted into the lot outside the station, let the engine idle, and turned to Hollis. “I know Bach wants you to go with me to interview Cecil Burney, but he’s not here, and I think the best use of your time is conducting some research.”

  “Find out everything I can about Shannon Davidson, right?”

  “And I have every faith you can come up with something on her son, too.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You could do your worst and still dig up whatever’s out there to dig up.”

  He grabbed the bag holding the brochure. “Call me after you talk to Burney.”

  I drove through Canyon City south on 395 and headed for Duncan’s place to grab a bite of lunch and take a break. A nap would’ve been heavenly, but that was not to be.

  I forced myself to make a large salad and found a brown rice cake in the cupboard, all of which made me long for another frozen entrée. Even the sorry-assed mac-n-cheese from last night was tastier.

  Back on the road, I continued south up Canyon Mountain toward Seneca. The tinder-dry forestland, still scarred from a massive fire several summers ago, lined much of the highway. We had been luckier in the years since—so far, anyway.

  Proceeding on up the mountain past the summit, I reached the rolling plateau of high desert, the Aldrich range to the west, and the Strawberry range to the east. The expanse of land I surveyed from Janine’s fire tower came to mind. Five days ago, the two of us sat together, and took in the stunning three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from the lookout’s contiguous set of wall-to-wall windows. I abruptly broke into tears, spurred on by hormones and the utter cruelty of her death.

  “Fuck,” I howled and moved onto the road shoulder and parked. After a few minutes, I pulled myself together, drank a few sips of water from my small canteen, and moved slowly back onto the highway to resume the trip to Seneca.

  Cecil Burney’s old-fashioned gas station sat along the edge of town just off of 395. His dilapidated truck and a small sedan were parked to the side, across from the two pumps, one holding gasoline and the other diesel fuel. A couple of tumbleweeds danced across the cement pad leading to the tiny office/garage where all the magic happened—lube jobs, tire repair, and beer bingeing.

  I stepped inside. Christ, I’d forgotten about the god-awful smell. A comingling of motor oil, puke, and pools of spilled Milwaukee’s Best. Layered over all that, the distinct odor of some wild critter.

  “What in hell do you want?” Burney asked, stepped back from his front counter, and spat a wad of chewing tobacco phlegm into a presumably empty beer can.

  Lyle Davis, his great-nephew, looked up from whatever he was fiddling with on the stained cement floor.

  “Nice to see you again, Lyle. Cecil, how are you this afternoon?”

  “Peachy,” Burney croaked.

  “Lyle, I need a private word with your Uncle Cecil. Maybe you can step outside.”

  “No damn way. Thursdays I pay him to clean my garage, and he ain’t done yet.”

  “I believe it’s time for Lyle’s break,” I answered. “Don’t you, Lyle?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The boy rose, tossed a greasy rag on the floor, and filed outside.

  “Lyle’s very respectful, don’t you think, Cecil?”

  “The fuck you wanna talk to me about?”

  “We still haven’t nabbed that cop killer.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I need the name of that doctor you saw in Boise last week. Need to verify you actually had an appointment and that you showed up for it.”

  “Even though Lyle told you he helped out driving me there and back?”

  “Like I said, Lyle’s respectful. Even to his crotchety old uncle, and I suspect he’d be willing to lie to the police if you asked him to.”

  “I didn’t have to ask him to lie to you, but you’re right, he would’ve if I had.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me his Boise doctor’s business card.

  I grabbed a matchbook advertising Cecil’s ARCO from a jar on the counter and scribbled down the contact info.

  “We also located a tackle box and assume it’s yours since the brand and color match the one you reported stolen. Plus your fingerprints were all over it. The Buck knife was missing, but it did contain some fishing gear. And also a buttload of drugs.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yeah. We think the tackle box was stashed where it was found for an interested party to pick up. And not someone who was looking to go fishing.”

  “What kinda drugs?”

  “The kind that could make somebody a lot of money.”

  “So it wasn’t weed, seeings how that’s legal these days. Gotta been coke or horse, maybe pills,” he said and sat on his cooler of beer. “I been an alkie since I was twelve, and I smoked a doobie from time to time ages ago. But get strung out on coke, horse, pills, any uh that shit? Might as well blow my head off with that old shotgun in the corner.”

  “Like I said, this stash would make somebody a lot of money. It probably wasn’t for personal use.”

  “I’m too old to be a dealer, even if I was interested.”

  “I may have you take a lie detector test.”

  “I ain’t afraid uh that. In fact, it’d be worth it just to make a fool outta you.”

  “It’s always nice chatting with you, Cecil,” I said a
nd turned to leave.

  “When do I get my tackle box back?”

  I ignored him and stepped outside to talk to the boy. Lyle was sitting in the shade on the back fender of the sedan parked next to Burney’s pickup truck.

  I stood over him. “Any more run-ins with Robbie Cole?”

  “So you figured out who that was?”

  “Are you telling me you lied to me when you said you didn’t know who he was?”

  “No, I asked around after talking to you in the park.”

  “All right. Any more run-ins?”

  “Nah.”

  “I’m reaching out to your great-uncle’s doctor in Boise to verify he was there for his appointment last Thursday.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything you want to say about that?”

  He shrugged. “I drove him most of the way there, stayed in the waiting room while he talked to the doctor, and drove him most of the way home.”

  “You can go on back inside the garage now.”

  Lyle looked off to the hills west of Cecil’s gas station. “I heard Robbie Cole’s dealing.”

  “Dealing what?”

  “Don’t personally know.”

  “Marijuana?”

  “I heard it was heroin, but I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “No bling, no fancy car.”

  “Maybe you watch too much TV.”

  He shrugged again.

  “Who told you Robbie dealt heroin?”

  The kid was starting to sweat, the shade being barely cooler than full sun. “Just another sophomore I know, repeating a rumor. Probably not a reliable witness.”

  “Reliable witness? You definitely watch too much TV.” I turned to leave but hesitated briefly. “You still have my business card?”

  Lyle nodded. “It’s at home.”

  “Call me if you have something more than a rumor to share with me.”

  “On my way back,” I told Hollis over the phone. “Learned nothing new from Burney, and I’m fairly convinced that not only didn’t he have anything to do with J.T.’s murder, he knew nothing about the heroin stashed in his green tackle box.”

  “Convinced enough to satisfy the detective?”

  “Who knows? But in other news, Burney’s great-nephew Lyle was helping out at the station today, and he said something mildly intriguing. There’s some high school gossip that Robbie Cole is dealing heroin.”

  “Yeah, that is intriguing. Any thread to follow?”

  “For now it’s just a rumor about a rumor. How about you? Any threads to follow?”

  “I talked to the White Salmon cops, and they sent me to Shannon Davidson’s brother. He lives here in Oregon in Hood River, and he was pretty open to speaking with an OSP officer. Anyway, Shannon passed away about seven years ago. Breast cancer. She was very close to her son, and he was with her when she died. It sounds like he was devastated by her death. Apparently her brother and the rest of the family were concerned for her son’s mental state and convinced him to check in to a mental health facility of some kind. He didn’t last long there, checked himself out, and disappeared. They haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Did they talk to the police about it?”

  “Yes, to the Washington State Police, but apparently there wasn’t a trail to follow.”

  “And the name Shannon Davidson gave her baby when he was born?”

  “John Robert Davidson.”

  “She named him after Bob Cole?”

  “Maybe,” Hollis said. “I looked up John Robert Davidson but didn’t find much. A couple of high school sports shots and a newspaper photo of a wind boarder who was supposedly him. Found nothing in LEDS or Washington State’s DMV records.”

  “Doesn’t leave much of a trace anywhere, this guy. But it’s good you were able to get the uncle to give you some information.”

  “Like I said, he was open to it, so I just let him spill his guts. He was initially curious why I was inquiring about his nephew John, and I made some oblique reference to a possibly related case.”

  “You always were a smooth talker, Holly.”

  “I sure hope so, because I’d like to talk you into giving me the rest of the day off.”

  “Got an appointment for a massage, have you?”

  “Yeah, the one I need to give to Lil.”

  “That sounds like a good reason to leave work a few hours early. Would you like me to take Hank for a while this evening?”

  “Thanks, no, but I’ll take a rain check. After we tie up this case. And you should go home early too, Maggie.”

  “You talked me into it.”

  “I happen to know that’s BS.”

  25

  Early Evening, August 20

  Sherry Linn’s bewildered expression as I entered the office caught me slightly off guard. She rolled her perfectly mascaraed almond-shaped eyes in the direction of our so-called waiting area. Sugar Muldaur had squeezed himself into the one and only plastic chair for visitors.

  “Mr. Muldaur,” I said. “I didn’t notice your camper van in our parking lot.”

  “My vehicle is undergoing an oil change at an establishment a few blocks from here. I thought I would dispatch two birds with one stone and call on you whilst the mechanic busied himself with my conveyance.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  He gestured toward Sherry Linn. “I’ve disturbed this enchanting maiden quite long enough. Could we speak in your private office?”

  That would have been either the bathroom or the storage room. Either way, he would have had to walk through the alcove where he was named as a person of interest on our murder board.

  “I’m afraid this is about as private as it gets, Mr. Muldaur.”

  “Sergeant Blackthorne,” Sherry Linn said, “the other officers are all out at the moment, and I need to pick up some supplies. That should give you plenty of privacy.”

  She didn’t fool me; she’d reached her limit with this odd guy.

  “Will that work, Mr. Muldaur?”

  “Splendidly, constable.”

  Sherry Linn gathered her purse and stood to leave. “I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so,” she said and sashayed from the building.

  I moved behind the counter as Muldaur launched himself slowly out of the plastic chair and placed his great hands on the countertop across from me.

  “Ms. Perkins is a fascinating woman,” he said.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Muldaur?”

  “I’m here to confess, constable.”

  “Confess what?”

  “I did not lie when I said I never had the pleasure of meeting the two individuals who perished descending into a barranca.”

  Ah, barranca again. “Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter?”

  “Yes, madam. However, I committed a serious case of obfuscation. I chose not to reveal they had rented my hunting retreat for two nights—Thursday the thirteenth and Friday the fourteenth. But alas, as it turns out, they had lost their atlas and were not able to locate the premises. They slept in their vehicle on Thursday night and finally contacted me Friday morning. The gentleman was quite furious. After he calmed down, I did my best to clarify the route.”

  “So, you came to town today to get an oil change and to admit you had made contact with Cruise and Porter and neglected to tell me?”

  “The purpose of the trip was the oil change, but on the drive here, I recalled what their true intent was in renting my hunting grounds on Aldrich Mountain.”

  “Okay?”

  “Mr. Cruise and Ms. Porter were eager to have access to it because they had a desire to use the all-terrain vehicle, which was included in the rental package.”

  “They told you that?”

  “In so many words. They attempted to bargain for use of the all-terrain vehicle only. But I stood my ground, so to speak.”

  “What did they plan to do with it?”

  “I can only speculate.”

  “I should arrest you for wi
thholding evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “I admit I could have been more forthcoming about the rental of my hunting retreat by that unfortunate couple, but how would that have assisted you in any homicide probe?”

  To some degree, Muldaur had a point. “It may be relevant to the timing of their location when Sergeant Lake was killed on Thursday the thirteenth.”

  “I see. Forgive me, I had not thought of that.”

  “Then what compelled you to come to me regarding their interest in the ATV?”

  “Did I recall incorrectly those two were wanted by the authorities for trafficking in drugs?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I was not aware of that when I agreed to rent the hunting retreat to them. But earlier today, when I remembered their interest in the all-terrain vehicle, I formulated a theory. Perhaps their desire to have that mode of transport at their disposal has something to do with retrieval or delivery of narcotics.”

  For a moment, I considered telling the man that was an intriguing thought, and one I hadn’t considered, at least not in the context of Cruise and Porter’s visit to our county.

  “And you still claim you didn’t meet with them in person?” I asked.

  “On my honor, I never laid eyes on them. I drove to my Aldrich Mountain retreat on the morning of Wednesday, the twelfth. Sometime later that day or early the following day, they planned to fetch the directions to my hunting retreat I’d slid under the mat at the back door of my home in Condon. I’d also left a small envelope for them containing the code to enter the property and mobile home, along with a key to the all-terrain vehicle.”

  “And your communications were by phone?”

  “Phone and email, madam.”

  “How did they get either address?”

  “I assume from the website extolling all of my available rentals.”

  Of course, that’s no doubt how Hollis managed to find out about Muldaur’s hunting cabin and other rental properties.